


Nobody Righteous; Nobody Proud

by JennaCupcakes



Series: Beauty and the Devil [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Dual Loyalties, Emotional Manipulation, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn With Plot, Power Imbalance, porn with a little plot at least, the inherent sexiness of max weber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 00:51:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20751617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: Max Weber says that charismatic leadership rests on the extraordinary devotion to the exceptional sanctity or heroism of an individual person. Arthur has the devotion part down like a champ.





	Nobody Righteous; Nobody Proud

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was put together from the notes I scribbled down in my little journal as I was playing Red Dead Redemption 2. If lines of dialogue seem familiar, that’s why. I’m currently on Chapter 3, so I would appreciate it if you kept spoilers out of the comments. 
> 
> I’d like to give a little warning beforehand because I chose not to use Archive Warnings on this one – I would rate the consent on this fic as dubious in some parts because of the power dynamics involved. If that’s something that you’re not comfortable with, tread carefully. Dutch also calls Arthur ‘son’ in a couple of questionable circumstances. 
> 
> I’m also aware that Max Weber wrote his dissertation on trade in Italian cities or something, and not “Economy and Society”. It’s called creative liberty. 
> 
> Title taken from Anaïs Mitchell's musical 'Hadestown', which you should all listen to because I'm obsessed with it and it's really good.

“I’m not even gonna ask whose blood this is.”

Arthur could feel Dutch’s watchful gaze on him as entered camp. He knew he looked terrible – smelled worse, probably – and truth be told, everyone was staring just a bit, but to Arthur, only Dutch’s eyes cut. They followed him as he went to drop off his kill at the commissary. Assessing. Cataloguing. Judging.

A predator who’d caught the scent of blood. After a few weeks of this, Arthur knew the signs.

* * *

Dutch found him off the North side of the cliff, in a little alcove Arthur had picked out as his hiding spot. He liked to come here, to smoke and draw and write and think; away from the noise of camp. Until now, he’d thought it was his secret.

Dutch stepped out of the shadows in the half-light of the sunset like he was born to them.

Arthur only just managed to conceal the twitch for his weapon.

Dutch didn’t say anything, just stood there, and so Arthur resumed smoking. The light slowly waned. Arthur stubbed out his cigarette before the glow could give him away.

“I met somebody in town who recognized me. From Blackwater.”

He hated the nervous surge through his system. He’d dreaded the confession – Dutch was mercurial, forgiving one day, merciless the next. And Arthur didn’t often get on his bad side.

“I took care of it,” He added in an effort to mitigate some of the damage.

Dutch stepped in front of Arthur, close, closer. Arthur took an unwitting step backwards and Dutch followed, until Arthur’s back hit the cliff face. Dutch caught one of Arthur’s hands between his own, lifted it to his face for consideration.

“You know…” he said slowly, “I think I _do_ want to know whose blood this is.”

Another stab of shame. Arthur shivered as Dutch took one of his fingers and sucked it into his mouth.

“It…_ah_… was a bear.”

His eyes fluttered shut briefly as other parts of his body took an immediate interest in the slow, lapping, methodical movements of Dutch’s tongue. Not conducive to thinking, that. His hips gave a helpless little twitch.

Dutch let off Arthur’s finger abruptly.

“A bear?”

Arthur thought briefly of how ashamed Hosea had been during their aborted bear hunt. He could sympathize now.

“Mh-mh. Killed it, too.”

A hand came up to stroke the side of Arthur’s face.

“What happened to the carcass, Arthur?”

“Wolves got it,” Arthur mumbled. His face was burning. He was painfully hard.

Dutch _tsk_-ed and gave Arthur’s cheek a couple of hard pats. Arthur whimpered, then bit his lip. Pathetic. This was pathetic. _He_ was pathetic.

“Arthur,” Dutch said. His voice sounded far away, or maybe that was the blood rushing in Arthur’s ears. “My golden boy. Don’t I always tell the others how much you do for us? Hold you up as a paragon? An example to us all?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, hoping to preserve at least a scrap of his dignity by not falling to his knees then and there and apologizing; maybe putting his mouth to some other use while he was at it. He’d let Dutch choke him if that’s what he wanted, he’d –

Dutch followed Arthur’s line of sight, which had followed Arthur’s thoughts. Dutch brought his hand up under Arthur’s chin to tilt his head back upwards. Arthur would have been horrified by the disappointment in Dutch’s eyes if his thoughts hadn’t been so preoccupied with the painful pulsing of his cock. If he could just –

“Arthur…” Dutch sighed wearily.

He took Arthur’s hand and guided it to Arthur’s cock, hard and straining in his pants. Arthur bit back a sob, but his knees still buckled. Dutch caught him with his other arm and pressed him against the still-warm cliff face. He guided Arthur’s hand in a steady, pressing motion.

“Always so desperate,” Dutch said, and Arthur was ready to agree with him if that would mean more of this friction.

“Please,” He whispered hoarsely.

With a sigh, Dutch undid the fastening of Arthur’s pants. He reached down, and one hand – finally, _blessedly_ – took a hold of Arthur’s cock.

Dutch’s pointed glare was a stern reminder to be quiet, so Arthur bit his tongue while Dutch stroked him with firm, rough hands. It was dry, but Arthur welcomed the edge of pain, and Dutch seemed to know it.

“Arthur, my boy,” Dutch whispered in his ear, and Arthur came, hard, “Whatever shall I do with you?”

Dutch wiped his hand on a handkerchief while Arthur tried to regain his breath. When Arthur had pulled himself back together, Dutch unfastened his pants almost nonchalantly.

“On your knees.”

Arthur dropped to his knees and opened his mouth in supplication.

Dutch was not gentle with him – his hand on Arthur’s head held Arthur exactly where Dutch wanted him, and Dutch forced himself deep. Still, Arthur felt a terrible sense of rightness about his place here, in front of Dutch, drool running down his chin.

Arthur choked on the twitching of Dutch’s hips when he came. It made tears come to his eyes. He swallowed and licked up what his mouth hadn’t caught until Dutch was satisfied.

He sat, breathing heavily, as Dutch tucked himself back into his pants. He still hadn’t recovered when Dutch, without so much as a second glance, walked away.

* * *

Max Weber, in his seminal work “Economy and Society”, published posthumously by his wife in 1921, defined “power” as the probability that one actor within a social relationship will be in a position to carry out his own will despite resistance.

* * *

It had started in Blackwater. Arthur should have known that nothing good could come out of something that started in Blackwater. But there was something in him that made him blind in certain regards, and that blind spot was focused on Dutch in a way he had yet to learn.

It had been a day, what kind of day Arthur couldn’t remember, but good it hadn’t been. Dutch hadn’t been in his tent when Arthur and Hosea came back from their day of swindling and sweet-talking in town. Arthur thought he’d done a good job of hiding his disappointment bordering on frustration, but he’d realized that wasn’t the case when Hosea caught his arm. The man was too perceptive.

“Let it go, Arthur.”

That was solid advice from a trusted mentor. Arthur knew he should listen to Hosea. After all, they had their little project – why shouldn’t Dutch and Micah have theirs?

“Nothing to worry about,” Arthur assured Hosea. Then he went and chopped firewood instead of screaming in frustration.

* * *

“Hosea said you wanted to talk.”

Arthur could have cursed the man in that moment. The part of him that wanted to talk to Dutch was not the part that could be trusted. Why Hosea thought Arthur could talk anything out in this state was beyond him.

“Nah, it’s fine.”

Arthur waved it off. He was proud of how he refused the temptation.

Unfortunately, Dutch had different ideas.

“Let’s take a walk.”

He guided Arthur out of the camp.

Eyeing him, Arthur hated the spark he saw in Dutch’s eyes, the swing in his step. Whatever he was planning with Micah had him excited. And jealousy came easy to Arthur, who had spent a great part of his life enjoying Dutch’s undivided attention and praise, being privy to all of his schemes and plans.

“Hosea needn’t have told me,” Dutch said when they had put some distance between themselves and the camp. “I know you’ve been a bit tense these past few weeks.”

“It’s just this place, Dutch,” Arthur deflected, “Nothing to worry about. You know I get nervous around so many people.”

“Mh,” Dutch said. The hand he’d kept on Arthur’s arm to steer him away from the tents and the others was still there. Arthur longed for a good shot of whiskey to steady his nerves, calm his temper.

“All I’m asking is that you trust me,” Dutch said after a while. He had a way of pitching his voice low when entreating Arthur that made everything he said into a shared secret between the two of them. All he wanted: Arthur’s trust. He made it seem like such a small thing, probably because he knew that he already had it. There wasn’t a world in which Arthur – with what he’d seen and where he’d been – wouldn’t follow Dutch near blind into anything.

“I do,” Arthur said. And then, before he could stop himself – “It’s just…”

He shut his mouth, but it was too late. Dutch used the hold he had on Arthur’s arm to stop him and spin him to face Dutch. Arthur could only meet his eyes for a second before he had to look away.

“What is it?” Dutch pressed. Arthur knew that tone of voice. Dutch would not be satisfied until he had his answer.

Arthur cursed Hosea for putting him in this situation. He cursed Dutch for bringing in Micah in the first place. He cursed Blackwater, and he cursed the ideas, the siren calls of easy money, that had brought them here.

“I don’t trust Micah,” He spat. Dutch’s hand on his arm tightened.

“Do you trust my judgement?” He asked in a tone of voice that suggested there was only one correct answer.

“You asked me what my problem was. I’m telling you I don’t trust Micah.”

He was toeing the line now. He was questioning Dutch without outright saying so. It was a heady feeling, like the air was suddenly thinner. Arthur breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Careful, boy.”

Dutch’s voice was a snarl, a warning. Arthur felt red hot anger flare up at the patronizing tone.

“Why do you ask if you don’t want to hear my answer?” He yelled. It took him everything to take his fear and turn it into defiance.

Lightning-quick – and Arthur had forgotten just how quick Dutch could be, how good his reflexes were – Dutch turned his grip on Arthur’s arm, tripped him backwards into the grass and pressed his forearm against Arthur’s throat. Arthur let out a yelp, but it was strangled by the pressure on his windpipe.

“Arthur…” Dutch admonished, and the disappointment in his voice cut deep. Then a frown crossed Dutch’s face. He leaned forward, and when he did, he was grinning.

“Oh Arthur… are you _jealous_?”

He was straddling Arthur, and where his hips met Arthur’s he pressed _down_. Arthur’s first reaction was shock, a surge of fear, when the pressure hit him, and he realized he was hard. His eyes flew open in embarrassment.

“Dutch, I…I…” He stammered hoarsely through the pressure Dutch still maintained on his throat.

“Shhh.”

Dutch leaned forward, put a finger to his lips, arm over Arthur’s throat, and pressed his hips down again. This time, Arthur’s hips twitched up to meet them, and the friction made Arthur’s eyes fall shut.

“You should have said something,” Dutch whispered in his ear.

“Please,” Arthur responded, his voice strangled, and he didn’t even know what he was asking for – for Dutch to release the crushing pressure on his windpipe? For more of the friction, the press and drag of Dutch’s hips?

“You needn’t have worried, boy.” Dutch’s hips were moving in a slow rhythm now, building pressure. “You’ll always be my favorite.”

Arthur couldn’t speak anymore, could hardly breathe. This was fucked up. He had never… _Dutch_ had never… And yet here they were. He swallowed.

“Now, Arthur – do you trust me?”

Dutch’s voice came to him through a haze. It sounded close, yet far away, but Arthur could feel Dutch’s breath on his ear. Somehow, the command Dutch had of his body didn’t feel foreign – he’d always given all of himself to Dutch and surrendering like this seemed only a small step further.

Arthur nodded. Dutch released the hold he’d had on his neck. Arthur sucked in a desperate breath.

He wanted to say something, now that he could speak again, but every word was stolen from his lips when Dutch moved his hips. And then, Dutch started speaking again.

“You’re always so good for me,” He said as he unbuttoned Arthur’s jeans.

“You’re the one I depend on,” He said and unfastened his own.

“I never take your trust for granted,” He said, and took Arthur’s cock in hand.

“You’re my favorite,” He said as he joined them both in his hand.

Arthur was overflowing with the sensations. The echo of the bitterness he had felt faded away in the tight grip of Dutch’s hand, Dutch’s skin velvet and warm against his, and the words that soothed the sting of the last few weeks when Arthur had begun to wonder – no.

“I wish you had come to me sooner,” Dutch said. His voice sounded ragged, hoarse, just as raw as Arthur was feeling. “Oh, Arthur, I would have told you. I would have shown you. I would have taken care of you.”

Arthur didn’t have words. He barely had the breath to survive in the firm grasp of Dutch’s hand. All he could do was bite his tongue and hope that the noises escaping his mouth wouldn’t embarrass him too much.

Dutch was as merciless in his lovemaking as he was in every other aspect of his life, though Arthur wasn’t sure if this could count as lovemaking. It still felt too much like a fight, like Dutch trying to win him over and wanting to be right, and Arthur once again succumbing to him any way he knew. And Dutch knew he was in control, too. That’s what got him off. Arthur could see it in his eyes, dark and focused and greedy.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He felt his release building up, his whole body tensing in search of the thing that would push him over the edge, let him surrender to Dutch when Dutch gripped him tight and Arthur shouted, coming hard and shaking and long and forever.

He came to with a hand carding through his hair and Dutch’s cock in front of his face. One of Dutch’s fingers pressed inside his mouth, forcing it open, and then Dutch slipped his cock inside. Arthur heard him sigh in deep relief.

He wasn’t practiced with his mouth, but Dutch seemed content to just keep a hand in Arthur’s hair and pleasure himself at his own pace. Arthur heard him groan softly, muttering praises under his breath until, with a swear, he emptied himself into Arthur’s mouth. He tasted musky, bitter, and Arthur couldn’t do anything but swallow with the way his head was still being held in place by Dutch.

A few moments later, Dutch pulled out, then let go of Arthur’s hair to caress his cheek in a gesture of uncharacteristic tenderness.

“My boy,” He said, pride and possessiveness echoing in his voice. Arthur shivered.

* * *

“Did you talk it out?” Hosea asked the next morning. Dutch and Micah were long gone from camp, and Arthur was more relieved than disappointed, not sure how to approach what had happened the night before with anything but shame and a burning red face.

“Hm? Oh, yes.”

Arthur busied himself with checking the saddle on his horse. Hosea gave him a critical look, which Arthur prided himself on ignoring. The critical glances didn’t subside all day and lasted well into the next meeting they had with Dutch and Micah, where Arthur – who had been about to open his mouth and voice a point of contention – was silenced by a look from Dutch.

_Oh Arthur… are you jealous?_

* * *

Max Weber, born as the first of eight children in 1864 in Erfurt, Germany, explained: “Domination (_Herrschaft_) is the probability that a command with a given content will be obeyed by a given group of persons.”

* * *

That had been Blackwater. Then they’d been on the mountain. And then they’d come down here, and it was spring, and Arthur didn’t know what was happening anymore. Without him noticing, the rules seemed to have shifted.

“You alright there, Arthur?”

The campfire was slowly burning down. It was Karen who had asked, interrupting her singing about a poor girl with poorer taste in men. She had a lovely voice, and a somewhat romantic streak, though she would kill before admitting it.

“I think so.”

Arthur had slept. Some semblance of it, anyway. Something about this place got to him, made him not sleep so well. Or maybe it wasn’t the place, but just the last few days.

He didn’t like collecting debts. Dutch knew that. It went against everything Arthur thought they stood for, and he wasn’t a man who dealt well with the cognitive dissonance of it, not like Dutch or Strauß. And it wasn’t that he had a problem with Strauß, the man ran a business like everybody else. He just didn’t like being the one tasked with cleaning up the mess.

Karen shrugged at Arthur’s ambiguous answer, then went back to her song. Arthur got up with a sigh. He couldn’t just while away the night by the fire, he’d be tired come morning. He stretched and felt a couple of joints pop. With a nod to Karen, he made his way back to his own tent.

Outside the light of the fire, it was darker. Arthur thought again of the face of the man, his blood on the vegetable patch and the sinking realization that there was no money. Thought of obedience, and duty, and allowed himself to feel just a small sliver of guilt.

“That you out there, Arthur?”

Arthur stopped at the voice coming from Dutch’s tent.

“Yeah,” He answered, though he really wasn’t in the mood to talk. He dreaded what might come out of his mouth if he did.

“Come in for a second,” Dutch said, and it was never requests with Dutch, always ‘_I need you to’_s and ‘_do that’_s. Arthur pulled aside the flap and stepped inside.

Dutch didn’t have a lamp lit.

“I couldn’t sleep because of that damn girl’s singing,” He said.

Arthur could barely make out Dutch’s face in the dark. From what he could see, Dutch looked haggard. Tired. Arthur took a chair, pulled it closer to the bed, and sat down. He’d ditched his jacket earlier and rolled up his shirtsleeves, and now he felt the cold of the night settling in.

“Listen, Arthur,” Dutch said, leaning forward, “I’m sorry we made you do all this. Strauß’s business. I know you don’t like it; it’s not your favorite job. But we needed the money.”

Dutch understood. Dutch was sorry. Something like relief flooded down Arthur’s spine.

“Ah, it’s alright.”

Arthur waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. Dutch caught his hand on the downward movement.

“Really, Arthur. Thank you. The service you did us today is immeasurable. The service you did me.”

Arthur swallowed. “My pleasure,” He drawled.

“Folk’re getting restless, after Blackwater. I was just talking to John today. But really, they’re on edge because the money’s not there, so every bit helps.”

Arthur nodded. He didn’t know whether to move forward or back. His instincts were screaming both directions at him in equal measure, but all of his attention was centered on Dutch.

“You understand, don’t you, son?”

Even in the darkness of the tent, the intensity of Dutch’s gaze was glaring. Arthur’s ability to give the right answer to that question had been honed over the years, forged in the fire of many a misadventure, hammered into him every time he’d let Dutch down.

“Course I understand, Dutch.”

Dutch squeezed his hand, then let go. Arthur let out a breath that had caught in his chest.

“That’s why you’re my favorite, Arthur.”

Dutch was shifting on the bed, making to lie back down. Arthur got up.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

* * *

Max Weber, defending his dissertation in 1889 in Berlin, defined “discipline” as the probability that by virtue of habituation a command will receive prompt and automatic obedience in stereotyped forms.

* * *

“What I wanna know,” Hosea said as they were making their way upriver, “Is what you’re gonna do the day he asks for something you’re not prepared to do.”

Arthur, who was leading the charge in tracking, scoffed. “Dutch wouldn’t.”

The words came out before he realized he’d betrayed himself. Hosea hadn’t given a name. Then again, the mention of Dutch had hung heavy in the air even before.

“If you say so,” Hosea said, “But ask yourself this: Has he really only ever asked you things you’re comfortable with? Or did your line in the sand shift every time to accommodate him?”

Arthur, who had been enjoying the freedom of a hunt away from camp just moments ago, was beginning to feel his mood shift. He normally welcomed the day away from camp, a chance to breathe, an opportunity to sort his thoughts. Hosea had asked Arthur to accompany him more often since they came down from the mountain. Arthur was trying to talk himself out of suspecting that Hosea suspected something. It was ridiculous, of course – he was just being paranoid.

“You’re worrying too much, Hosea. Dutch is a good man. He has his principles.”

“Yeah.”

Hosea seemed pensive, like there was something on his mind he was trying to put into words, but it was too big for any he could come up with. That didn’t happen often with Hosea. They set up camp before Hosea spoke again.

“I guess it just scares me sometimes, Arthur. The idea of a man with boundless desires and then a man with no boundaries to carry out his vision. You two make quite the pair.”

Arthur didn’t respond. He wanted to believe he would draw the line somewhere. He watched the flickering campfire and wondered if he would draw the line somewhere.

“Dutch alone is a man with a vision. Dutch with you is powerful.” Hosea shook his head. “You don’t just have to be the executor. You have power.”

“You said it yourself.” Arthur was chewing thoughtfully on his beans. “Dutch is the one with the vision. After all, what do I know about anything?”

“Maybe you’re right.” Hosea busied himself with scraping out the bottom of his own tin of beans. “I’m no better, probably. I couldn’t keep folks together like he does.”

Arthur looked at Hosea, and for a moment, he had a strange image in his head. It bordered on religious imagery, like those Mexican churches he’d seen, full of dramatic depictions of Saints and martyrs, Jesus on the cross and the Virgin Mary weeping over his dead body. The center of it was Dutch, arms outstretched, him and Hosea the right and left hand of the master.

* * *

According to Max Weber, who would die in 1920 in Munich, there are three pure types of legitimate domination, the validity of which may be based on: rational, traditional, or charismatic grounds.

* * *

This one was a bad one.

Normally, Arthur’s body worked through adrenaline quickly and efficiently, didn’t leave him shaking after a fight. But he hadn’t felt this close to death in a while, and this one struck him all the way down to his bones.

Dutch was waiting for him when Arthur rode back into camp.

“John told me,” He said even before Arthur got off his horse, and the look of quiet intensity in his eyes spoke volumes about how much John had spilled to Dutch. The goddamn snitch. Arthur hitched his horse to a post.

“That boy Kieran saved me.”

Dutch nodded. “Come with me.”

A new wave of adrenaline crashed through Arthur. Dutch grabbed his arm, steering him away from the camp, with its lights and sound and promise of food and alcohol. Into the quiet stillness of the trees. Arthur, blood still all over him, had no choice but to follow.

There was a tree that was older than some of the others, thick trunk and heavy foliage cover. Dutch wasted no time shoving him against it.

“You oughta be more careful, Arthur.”

Leave it to Dutch to say everything but what needed saying.

“We can’t lose you.”

Arthur wanted to roll his eyes, wanted to make light of the situation as if his hands weren’t still shaking in a way they really shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t fear death when it came to him like this, but he felt stupid for being reckless, stupid for being saved by that bratty half-baked kid. He was too old for dumb mistakes.

“I’m glad I’m still alive, too.”

He grabbed Dutch’s lapels and held on, challenge in his eyes. To see if this was what Dutch wanted. He wasn’t going to beg. But Dutch had brought him out here with something in mind, so the man could damn well admit it.

Dutch kept him pressed against the tree. Didn’t move, just stared Arthur down. He always wanted control, wanted Arthur to surrender. Arthur wanted to find Van Der Linde’s breaking point for a change instead.

Arthur shifted his hips, and there it was. Dutch’s hand on his shoulder fastened in a warning, but Arthur could feel he was hard as well. It felt like a victory. It felt like defeat.

Never one to forfeit, Dutch crowded Arthur further against the tree, pressing up against his erection. The adrenaline in Arthur’s body made everything twice as bright, twice as intense. He swore as Dutch pressed up against him.

“I can’t afford to lose you, boy,” Dutch hissed in his ear, “When will that stick in that stupid head of yours?”

“Not my fault. Not today,” Arthur panted. He punctuated the words with a roll of his hips.

Dutch seemed tense, strung to the breaking point, close to losing his composure. His hand fitted itself around the back of Arthur’s head, pulled him in, pressing their foreheads together. The look in his eyes seemed to speak of something that couldn’t be put into words, and that Arthur had no interest in deciphering. Plausible deniability.

It didn’t take long after that.

Dutch took them both in hand. Arthur shivered, and shook, and swallowed the sounds he wanted to make. Dutch held his eyes shut tight, as though in pain. His mouth hung half open, panting.

“Arthur,” He said. The sound of his voice, the way he said Arthur’s name like he had a litany of things he didn’t want to say pouring into that name, ruined Arthur. He came, jerking and shaking, all over Dutch’s hand. Dutch emptied himself not seconds after, the twitching of his hips sending helpless shocks of pleasure through Arthur’s oversensitive body.

Dutch pulled back first.

* * *

_The validity of the claim to legitimacy based on –_

  1. _ Charismatic grounds – resting on devotion to the exceptional sanctity, heroism or exemplary character of an individual person, and of the normative patterns or order revealed or ordained by him (charismatic authority)._

* * *

They were back in the camp when Lenny came riding in.

“They got Micah!”

Arthur hated himself a little bit for the fact that his first reaction was relief, not dread – the first feeling the feeling that his prayers had been answered, not the thought that his entire family was now in danger.

“And there’s talk of hanging him!”

Served him right, Arthur thought. But he knew what was coming, even before Dutch turned to him. He didn’t want to hear it.

“You have to get him out, Arthur.”

“I ain’t going.”

Arthur was sure he wouldn’t. Micah was a hothead. Micah was a dick. And Arthur blamed him for what had happened in Blackwater. Not to mention Dutch, whose undivided attention Micah had enjoyed then.

“I can’t go! My face will be all over West Elizabeth!” Dutch’s voice got louder, so Arthur yelled back, “I won’t do it!”

Dutch’s eyes were filled with rage. Still, he managed to quell some of that anger for his well-practiced disappointment. Arthur couldn’t look him in the eyes when he got like that.

“He’d do the same thing if it were you, Arthur.”

Maybe Bill was right. Maybe Arthur was going soft, and Dutch’s eyes were the undoing of him. Arthur could feel his resolve cracking like ice sheets on a winter lake – it echoed, loud and plain and deafening.

“I doubt that,” he spat, “but I’ll do it.”

He wanted Micah to die. It wasn’t a pretty thought, not a comfortable feeling the way it sat black and violent in his gut. But he couldn’t face the disappointment in Dutch’s eyes.

“Good boy,” Dutch said. For a split second, all the muscles in Arthur’s body tensed. His vision went red. His fists clenched.

But he walked away.

“I hope he’s worth it, Dutch.”

Max Weber, with more insights into Arthur’s predicament than seemed right for a man who had never met him, wrote: _“The prophet has his disciples; the warlord his bodyguard; the leader, generally, his agents. There is no such thing as appointment or dismissal, no career, no promotion. There is only a call at the instance of the leader on the basis of the charismatic qualification of those he summons.”_

* * *

Javier was back in camp. You could tell by the gentle notes of a guitar accompanying the off-key singing, led by Uncle’s best attempt at hitting the notes Javier was playing. Javier had tried for _Clementine_ earlier, but Uncle had interrupted him with another raunchy sing-along. Javier, after a moment of listening, had picked up the tune.

It felt like home. Javier and Sean, even the brief glimpse of Trelawney, Uncle’s off-key singing, even John’s constant bad mood. Arthur hadn’t felt the family coming together like this in a long while. Probably since Blackwater.

Even Dutch was elated, though that seemed par for the course with his mood swings of late. Hosea was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur found himself bouncing around camp like a mayfly from campfire to campfire, and still he wasn’t able to take it all in. Everybody was talking, sharing stories, singing songs, joking, sharing food, alcohol, and the occasional sweet. They’d had precious little to celebrate in the last few weeks, and they were determined to make up for it now. Arthur acquiesced to some of the requests from the women in camp who wanted a dance – Arthur wasn’t a good dancer by a long shot, that was well known, but it was also well known that he liked to make people laugh, and most of the girls appreciated that.

He disentangled himself eventually, when he felt he’d made enough of a fool of himself, to search for a shot of whiskey to soothe the ache in his legs and arm – dancing was a different kind of work, one that Arthur wasn’t trained for.

He had just found a fresh bottle to uncork when Hosea found him.

“We need to talk.”

Arthur sighed. Every time – just when things were going peachy, someone had to come by with some problem they absolutely _had_ to share with him. But Hosea gave him a look.

“Son, I don’t ask you for much. Least you can do is listen.”

“Sure.”

Hosea was right. Somehow, whenever he came asking for something, Arthur found himself reluctant, probably because Hosea had always seemed strict. Strict but consistent. Predictable. Arthur found he appreciated that more and more as he got older.

“What is it?”

Hosea strolled away from some of the noise of the celebration. Arthur followed. Hosea seemed unhurried but determined, a goal in mind. Without the campfires painting shadows on his face, he didn’t look quite so bad.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, then sighed and rubbed his chin, “It’s only because – well, you know my health and at this point, I might not have much longer. And I’m worried about Dutch.”

Arthur had suspected it was going to go this way. He braced himself.

Dual loyalties. They were a bitch.

“Go on.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it, Arthur.”

Hosea didn’t seem impressed by Arthur’s careful neutrality.

Dual loyalties. Arthur thought he’d never have to taste _this_ particular brand of them. Dutch and Hosea. He did not want to be dragged into this, not if he could help it – it would pass. Then, both of them would feel silly for trying to win him over.

“Sit down, son,” Hosea said. He chose a boulder and patted the spot next to him.

Arthur sat down. He hadn’t felt so young, so insecure in a long while.

“I know you love him, Arthur. God knows I love him, too. But you were never raised to question him, and I think you’ll have to, soon.”

“Hosea… don’t talk like that.”

Arthur’s mouth felt dry. The sounds of the celebration flared up and faded like waves on a beach.

“I will talk like that if I want to. I’ve earned that right at my age.” Hosea’s voice was firm, but Arthur could hear the pain in his voice. “I didn’t do right by you. I should have raised you better. Smarter. You have a good mind. But Dutch saw you, and he formed you – in his way. I’m sorry.”

He sighed again. “He listens to you. Even when he doesn’t want to.”

“Hosea…”

“No, Arthur, please…”

“What you’re asking me to do, Hosea…” Arthur pursed his lips, thinking of dark eyes, staring him down, and how those eyes seemed to know him before he knew himself. “I don’t think I’m cut out for that.”

Hosea turned to Arthur, the expression on his face a study in regret. It etched itself into Arthur’s mind, so much so that he was able to replicate it in perfect detail in his journal later. Hosea understood, Arthur knew. He understood, though he didn’t know the details.

“I should have raised you better.”

Arthur shrugged.

“I’m sorry.”

Max Weber, a continent away, intoned – _“If proof and success elude the leader for long, if he appears deserted by his god or his magical or heroic powers, above all, if his leadership fails to benefit his followers, it is likely that his charismatic authority will disappear.”_

Hosea clapped Arthur on the shoulder as he walked away, all stiff joints and careful movements, not at all the energetic man he had been in his youth. Arthur stayed seated on the boulder, smoking a cigarette or three.

That was where Dutch found him an hour later.

* * *

“Have you seen Hosea?”

Arthur had just begun to wash the bitter taste of what felt like betrayal from his mouth when Dutch walked up next to him. From down where Arthur sat, Dutch looked tall, looked imposing, looked like a mountain.

“A while ago.”

Arthur shrugged. He wanted no part in this, wanted desperately to be left alone by both Dutch and Hosea until they came back to their senses.

Dutch sat down next to him. He wasn’t a man for granting wishes.

“I’m afraid for him,” he said, “I think his illness has taken more out of him than he realizes. It happens, when you look death in the eye like that sometimes. Some men lose their edge after that.”

“Hosea wouldn’t–“

Dutch turned towards Arthur, a pained expression on his face. “It happens to the best of us.”

* * *

“Arthur.”

Dutch was in a good mood. His brooding around the tent up on Horseshoe Overlook had found an end down South, apparently. Less confined as the camp was, he wandered along the shore of the lake for hours, confident strides of an orator preaching to an invisible audience, even as the air grew hotter and sleepiness overtook the camp in the afternoon heat.

Dutch strode towards Arthur with big steps, Cheshire grin and swinging arms.

“How have you been?”

The sun was beginning to set, spilling bright colors over the water that made Arthur wish for crayons. He was happy he’d gotten to paint their old camp before they’d had to abandon it. The places they stayed at always seemed so ephemeral, and he found himself struggling to remember every home they’d made more often these days.

“Good, Dutch, thanks.”

Arthur adjusted his hat and wiped his hands on his pants. Dutch clapped a hand on his back as he moved up to him.

“A fresh start, son. That always feels good.”

Arthur nodded. Truth be told, he was tired – the day had been a long one of errands in the surrounding area. But Dutch was full of fire, and like that he would not be stopped by a tired sigh or whatever resistance Arthur had to offer. He followed Dutch along the shoreline, and Dutch talked like he used to, stories and plans a great tapestry in his mind that made you feel like you were glimpsing greatness just out of your reach.

They stopped a little ways down the shore, where some trees had fortified a little spit of land reaching into the water. The lake lapped lazily at the shore, but the roots held. The low sun painted its own landscape of ridges and hills, veritable valleys of shade between them.

Dutch sat and patted the ground next to him. Arthur shrugged and sat.

It was funny, being back near a body of water whose end he couldn’t see. John had never liked those, said they gave him nightmares the way they seemed ready to rise up and flood everything, never trust water that just goes on and on and never stops – and they had ended up avoiding such campsites, even when John had outgrown his proclivity for dramatic sulking. According to Arthur, he still wasn’t quite over those.

But Arthur liked the water. It reminded him – shit, he didn’t rightly know what it reminded him of. All he knew was that looking out over the water, all black and fiery red, loosened something deep in him. Made him feel less old.

“It finally feels better,” Dutch proclaimed, a deep sigh in his breast. Arthur had his eyes on a stick he’d thought might be a water snake, but the sound of Dutch’s voice, the tone of it made him turn, invariably.

Some of the dark color under Dutch’s eyes had melted away, like a bad bruise fading. The color had returned to his cheeks, as if it had taken weeks and the warm sun of the South to melt away the cold of Colter. It brought a shine to the warm color of his eyes. He looked like the Dutch of old – and he looked at Arthur that way, too. There was fondness in his eyes, and pride.

“I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for us in the last weeks.”

Arthur barely even flinched when he felt a hand covering his own; Dutch leaning in closer.

“I would say you’re like a son to me but – well, you’re more than that.”

The moment held, a note hovering in the air. Once again, Arthur didn’t know which way it was going to tip.

Dutch sniffed.

“You might want to consider a dip in that lake. You smell.”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “Ever since we got here, you had me running errands. It’s hot as hell here. That’s the price.”

The tension diffused. Arthur stripped unselfconsciously; the air still hot enough to draw sweat from his skin even after the sun had set. The cool water was a blessing on his skin, a baptism for a man who’d never much been one for religion. Cleansing, that was the word. In more than the literal sense.

He swam out for a bit, then turned around and waved at Dutch on the shore who still sat there with his legs outstretched, reclining. Looking regal. Kingly.

In a footnote of his book “Economy and Society”, Max Weber remarked that he had taken the concept of “charisma” (“the gift of grace”) from the vocabulary of early Christianity.

Dutch rose to his feet when Arthur came back, dripping lake water like a wet dog.

Arthur grinned.

“Why don’t you give me a hug, Dutch?”

Dutch gave him a stern look. “If you try that, Arthur, you won’t live to see the dawn.”

* * *

There were voices coming from Dutch’s tent. Arguing. Again.

The heat, Arthur reasoned. The heat was driving them all insane. Hosea had snapped at Bill earlier already. Now, it appeared, it was Dutch’s turn.

“What are we doing here, Dutch?”

Arthur didn’t like how Hosea sounded. Didn’t like the grating echo of the cough that had nestled deep in his chest, the way he struggled for air, and the way the lack of air made him seem desperate. Desperation didn’t befit Hosea, and this desperation bordered on despair.

“Hosea.” How calm Dutch sounded in comparison. “You, of all people, should know. This isn’t some half-baked scheme. I’m walking in both eyes open. Trust me.”

“Trust you.” Hosea scoffed. “You’re racking up quite the debts in that department, Dutch.”

“Ask yourself, who would you rather be, my brother – Peter or Thomas?” Dutch had remained seated while Hosea – lean frame somehow turned frail – gestured and raved in front of him. Now, he rose. “All I need is time to think. Away from the naysayers and the doubters.”

In the half-light, Hosea’s face turned hard as stone. “You can have that, Dutch. “He said, then turned and exited the tent with clipped footsteps. He brushed past Arthur as he did, and the second their eyes met, Arthur felt something cold pass over his neck. A shiver. A premonition.

Dutch sat back down. “You know I’ll get us out of this, don’t you, Arthur?”

Arthur – feeling a smidge of guilt for having intruded on this moment, made a noncommittal gesture. “Of course, Dutch.”

Discipline, the prompt and automatic obedience in stereotyped forms. Arthur was an instructive example.

He was ready to move on, to drink and to try and forget about this whole episode, maybe empty a bottle with Charles to thank him for saving him, when Dutch patted the spot on the cot next to him.

“Sit with me.”

A request – a command. Only a distinction to those who’d not bound up their personal happiness with pleasing Dutch. Arthur had long since opted for efficiency in that department.

For a while, they said nothing. Arthur didn’t know what to do with his hands. The air was thick. Dutch sighed like a man with a heavy weight on his chest. Breathing, it seemed, was hard for all of them in this sun-burnt country.

“I must look like a fool in your eyes.”

When Dutch spoke, it was with uncharacteristic dejection. He glanced at Arthur sideways, like he couldn’t bear to face him. It stabbed Arthur in his heart. Hosea’s words must’ve cut deeper than either Hosea or Arthur had realized.

“God, Dutch, no,” he hurried to say, “No, no, it’s just – everyone’s a little on edge, right? Folk’re saying things they don’t mean. We know you’ll get us out of this.”

Dutch clapped his hand on Arthur’s leg. “Thank you for saying that.”

He fell silent again. Arthur’s mouth felt dry. Dutch’s hand on his leg was moving – the most miniscule of movements, a gentle twitch. A distraction.

“I shouldn’t impose on you like this,” Dutch said when he spoke again. “I’m sorry. Leadership is a burden, and it is my cross to bear.”

He withdrew his hand, and Arthur’s hand twitched with the wish to recapture it, to reassure Dutch. Dutch caught the movement. He smiled at Arthur.

“You’re always so good to me.”

“You’re not imposing on me,” Arthur said, challenge in his voice. He wasn’t a boy, and he wasn’t just any other member of the gang. Apart from Hosea, he had ridden with Dutch the longest. If he shouldn’t share in some of this burden, who should?

Dutch, however, got up from the cot.

“It’s getting late,” He said, his back turned to Arthur. He moved to close the flap of the tent, but to Arthur’s surprise didn’t hold them open for Arthur to leave.

Arthur shifted where he sat. “It is.”

Dutch still didn’t turn. “I’m not a good man, Arthur Morgan.”

“I’m pretty sure none of us are, Dutch.”

Something was in the air. Something unspoken. Arthur had historically been bad with unspoken tensions. He preferred things out in the open, where he couldn’t accidentally stumble across them.

The rigid slope of Dutch’s spine sagged. Arthur, running on impulse, stepped up next to him. “Hey now.”

Dutch turned, suddenly. Without the light from the fire outside, his eyes were dark, and his face was painted in shadows. Arthur’s eyes mapped that face, so familiar to him.

Dutch kissed him, hard.

Dutch had never kissed him before, Arthur realized. He would have remembered, because suddenly the smell of the man was overwhelming, so strong Arthur could taste it on the back of his tongue. It set his brain on fire. It went straight to his cock. He gasped.

Dutch grabbed a handful of Arthur’s shirt to keep him in place and pushed his tongue into Arthur’s mouth. Arthur had half a mind to protest at the intrusion – too _intimate_, too _familiar_ – but Dutch didn’t leave him much room to move, just walked Arthur backwards until the back of his knees hit the cot and buckled. Arthur sat down and Dutch followed and didn’t stop, pushing Arthur backwards until Arthur was lying on his back and Dutch was pressing him down, tongue still in his mouth. Dutch pushed his hips against Arthur’s, and it was hard and desperate and just like Arthur remembered. Dutch groaned. Arthur shivered.

Dutch was heavy on top of him. Pinning him down. It shot down Arthur’s spine like lightning when he realized that he wasn’t quite sure he could throw Dutch off if need be. It frightened him. It thrilled him.

Dutch didn’t so much stop kissing him as slowly move his kisses over Arthur’s jaw to his neck, and Arthur gasped. Dutch’s breath was hot on his neck, his stubble rough against Arthur’s skin. His hips kept up a steady grinding rhythm, heavy and pressure and maddening and out of Arthur’s control.

From where Dutch’s face was buried in Arthur’s neck, he made a strangled sound. “I ask so much of you, Arthur.”

Another stab to his heart. “Dutch, you… shit, you could never. Ask too much, I mean.”

Dutch pulled back abruptly, and on his face was wonder and desperation and the gold-digger glint of a man who had spent a lifetime pursuing treasure and, on occasion, finding it.

“Oh, son,” Dutch said – sounding pained, the stagger after an expected blow, “You are something else.”

Arthur didn’t know how he’d ended up here, how he always seemed to end up here lately. All he knew was that his trajectory bent towards Dutch. He didn’t control it. He just went where Dutch told him to go.

A hand found the side of Arthur’s face. Dutch leaned back down, the overwhelming weight of him settling over Arthur like a bond. He breathed in deep, like he was taking in the scent of Arthur. Arthur felt him shiver. It wrecked through his body.

He pressed his hips down again, and Arthur felt the buttons of his jeans dig painfully into his crotch. He hissed. Dutch didn’t let up. The lack of control tore through Arthur like a flare. Dutch was – Dutch was desperate, he needed _something_, and he would take it from Arthur. And Arthur would let him.

Arthur breathed out, forcing himself to relax, letting his legs fall open. Dutch’s hand snuck between them, rubbing at Arthur’s crotch. The angle was better, the friction more intense, and Arthur shut his mouth tight to swallow the moan that tried to escape from behind his teeth.

Dutch’s fingers went from rubbing to deftly undoing the jeans buttons and wasn’t that something – the dexterity of these long fingers, the way he only took one hand, so effortlessly, while the other was still cradling Arthur’s face. Then the buttons were undone, and Dutch sat back up to yank down Arthur’s jeans to his knees. When he leaned back down, the fabric of his pants was rough against Arthur’s cock. Arthur’s breath was coming in short gasps. The heat. It got to all of them. Made them desperate, and crazy.

“I need you, Arthur,” Dutch said, still with that strange expression on his face that made Arthur want to put the world at his feet just so that Dutch would stop looking like that. Arthur just nodded. He didn’t care what Dutch needed. If it was in his power, he would give it, and if it wasn’t, he’d give all of himself trying to get it anyway.

Dutch rolled off Arthur, and the sudden weightlessness left Arthur adrift. Dutch’s hands were still there, though, pulling off his jeans and pushing up his legs. Arthur heard the clinking of metal, the rustle of fabric, the clanking of a tin. Then there was the hand that slipped between Arthur’s legs, and the finger nudging at his entrance, and suddenly Arthur found himself tethered in a wholly new manner.

“Dutch…”

It came out louder than expected – a needy, high-pitched sound borne from the force of a new kind of surrender. The feeling that Dutch commanded his body, like a string, plucked.

Dutch tutted. “Ah, ah, ah.”

A hand settled over Arthur’s throat, not pressing down – _not yet_, Arthur’s mind supplied – reminding him to be quiet. Arthur sucked in a deep breath, nodded.

Dutch moved his hand again, his finger slipping in and out of Arthur and making his toes curl with the intensity of it.

When Dutch slipped in a second finger, Arthur made a punched-out sound. Dutch’s fingers tightened just the slightest amount. A warning. A promise. Arthur’s hips bucked up involuntarily, seeking pressure, something, anything to touch his cock.

“I have you, Arthur.”

Dutch’s voice was a familiar, low rumble, his movements measured and precise. Arthur could feel his body reorienting in the wake of such control, bending towards Dutch.

“I know you. I know what you need. That’s why you’re mine, Arthur, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Arthur pressed out, a strangled sound.

A third finger. This time, Arthur managed to contain the sound as his body adjusted to being opened, stretched out, presented. Then, the angle of Dutch’s fingers changed slightly, and Arthur shouted.

Dutch’s hand strangled most of the sound. The desire pulsed through Arthur, intermingled with the lack of oxygen. He couldn’t help struggling, but that only served as a reminder of all the ways in which Dutch had him in his grip. Dutch brought him back under control.

He settled back onto Dutch’s fingers and then Dutch let him breathe again. Arthur’s heart was hammering in his chest. He felt no less tied down than when Dutch had pinned him down with his body.

“There you are,” Dutch muttered, soothing, praising, pleased. Arthur caught his eye, a moment of connection that still managed to shock him, somehow. Dutch was driven. And all of his intention was bent towards Arthur. “You’ll always be there for me.”

Arthur nodded – quickly, desperately. Dutch pressed his face into Arthur’s crotch, so close to his cock that Arthur couldn’t help the strangled noise bubbling up from his chest. Dutch breathed in deep. “It means so much, Arthur. You trusting me like this.”

“Of – _ah_ – course.”

Arthur felt strung up, trapped. It was either the best he’d felt in a while, or the next best thing. He decided it didn’t matter when Dutch looked at him like that, all hunger and intent and mad despair. It didn’t matter when Dutch had him like this, open, spread out, finally enough to give Dutch what he needed.

“Good boy.”

Dutch removed his fingers, wiping them clean on a handkerchief, the way he moved so exact endlessly familiar to Arthur because he applied it to every aspect of his life. With the emptiness, Arthur was on the float again. He swallowed when Dutch slipped off his pants. His whole body felt like it was numb and hypersensitive at the same time, like pinprick-needles that stung twice as much where anything touched him. He stared at Dutch, eyes wide, pleading wordlessly for a firm touch, anything, to stop how every shift of the air made his cock twitch. Dutch gazed back with eyes that were only hunger.

He came back to Arthur, took a firm hold of his legs and hooked them over his shoulders, settling both of his hands on either of Arthur’s arms. Let Arthur take in the weight for a moment, as if he knew.

When he lined himself up to push into Arthur, Arthur had to close his eyes. Instead of grounded, he felt ground down, reduced to his smallest constituent parts, barely a person. His mind laser-focused on the point where Dutch stretched him open. It hurt, but it felt like it was _supposed_ to hurt and that alone made Arthur’s breath come faster, made his heart hammer and his head swim.

Dutch’s eyes were wide open. “Oh _yes_…” He whispered, a quiet triumph of pleasure. “Oh, _Arthur_…”

Arthur could feel it when he bottomed out. It punched the air out of him for a second. Then Dutch pulled out again and fucked him.

Dutch’s body was a heavy weight of skin and movement above him. His thrusts pushed Arthur into the cot, made him struggle for breath every time Dutch pushed himself deep inside. And every time, it drew a choked-out sound from Arthur’s chest that just seemed to spur Dutch on.

Dutch’s hand found its way back to Arthur’s throat – not squeezing, just keeping Arthur locked in place. As if he could have gone anywhere. Dutch had made a home in every part of Arthur, in his life and in his body. Had converted him. Arthur was suddenly overcome with the desire to tell Dutch that, to let him know, to soothe the manic search of the man for something resembling absolution.

“You have me, Dutch.”

It came out less reassuring and more desperate than intended, probably because most of his nerve endings were on fire. Still, it lit a spark in Dutch’s eyes.

“Damn right I do,” He said and wrapped a hand around Arthur’s cock. Arthur groaned, followed by a warning pressure from Dutch’s hand, which was currently keeping Dutch upright and Arthur pinned to the cot. Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut again, lost in the surrender of Dutch taking what he wanted from him. He could feel it – Dutch fucking him open, taking his pleasure while controlling Arthur’s, reminding him of his exact place. It overwhelmed Arthur.

Dutch’s thrusts were getting faster, more frantic. Every bolt of pain intermingled with the sharp pleasure of Dutch’s hand, slender fingers stroking Arthur. Arthur could feel Dutch tipping, stumbling over the edge of his orgasm when he slammed home erratically once, twice, and then stayed pressed impossibly deep as he filled Arthur in hot spurts, expression on his face a mixture of ecstasy and pain. He stroked Arthur through it, still buried deep and Arthur let himself be overcome. His release found him bucking up helplessly, making strangled noises that were cut off by Dutch, and the impression of satisfaction on Dutch’s face, as if he was committing the image of Arthur, coming undone, to memory.

Dutch recovered faster than Arthur. He always did. He pulled out, leaving Arthur cold and open and dripping, though Arthur doubted his body would be free of the memory of Dutch anytime soon. He could already feel the ache settling in, deep and possessing. He sat up without making eye contact with Dutch and recovered his jeans. He put them back on, then cast a disgusted look down the front of his shirt, stained with sweat and come. The mark seemed right in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. He would wash the shirt, let it dry overnight. Remove the physical evidence.

He made to go, but there was Dutch, catching his wrist. Arthur turned. Dutch had put his pants and his shirt back on but left it unbuttoned. There was something deep in his eyes, in the way they raked over Arthur’s body, in the way his hand encircled Arthur’s wrist.

“Thank you, my boy.”

His tone made it seem like after everything they had done; this was the most intimate moment. Arthur swallowed, and didn’t know what to say.

Max Weber, sitting at a desk in Freiburg, Germany wrote: _“It is recognition on the part of those subject to authority which is decisive for the validity of charisma. This recognition is freely given and guaranteed by what is held to be proof, originally always a miracle, and consists in devotion to the corresponding revelation, hero worship, or absolute trust in the leader. […] Psychologically this recognition is a matter of complete personal devotion to the possessor of the quality, arising out of enthusiasm, or of despair and hope.”_

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com/)


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